Fantasia

Tits And Bits

I was checking something on my blog for a friend and realized I haven’t posted anything since September 9th.  I figure that’s way too long to not punish y’all write a post, so here I am.

How’s my decrepit, traitorous back?  Thank you for asking.  I can now bend over without using every curse word I know (and that’s a lot) and I’ve put the heating pad away for future old lady ailments.  I’m not googling “How many damned Motrin can I take before I overdose my lame ass?” everyday just to make sure the answer hasn’t changed.  My deep tissue massage went well.  It made me more sore (sorer?) for a couple days but I think it helped.  I have another one scheduled for next month because I’m a masochist like that.  We are planning on going back to Six Flags over Georgia in a few weeks for Fright Fest and I plan to give the Mind Bender a lot of side eyes and shade for screwing me up.  Bitch.

Let’s get on with the August/September issue of Tits and Bits, where I clean out my list of funny and maybe not so funny tidbits (your mileage may vary) one liners and happenings which may or may not deserve a whole blog post or I’m just too damned lazy to write a whole blog post about.


Me:  I had a nightmare.  I had another baby.

E:  Was it mine?

Back off.  He’s taken, ladies.


My friend Lulu was dealing with some hair in a spot she’d never dealt with being hairy before and asked for my advice.  Well, I actually don’t remember if she specifically asked for my advice but as I do in all situations like that, I gave it to her anyway.  My response was “Shave everything that doesn’t move and if it does move, you chase that shit down and shave it anyway.”


When I was in Texas this past July, my besties and I went to my brother’s bar for another wonderful drag show.  Yes, I still owe you a post on that.  I’ve been busy doing old lady shit like lounging on heating pads and cursing Time.  Anyway, Fantasia somehow talked me into agreeing to get our nipples pierced that night as soon as the bar closed.  I agreed because I was drunk and apparently I’m a pussy and can’t say “Hell no” to friends.  Luckily, the tattoo shop was closed by the time the bar closed.  Fantasia still won’t let it go, though.

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Fantasia, I’m making it official.  I do not want to have big ass stainless steel needles inserted into my precious, tender nipples.  They have never done me wrong and you’re asking me to subject them to this treachery?  I don’t know what your nipples ever did to you but they seriously need to sit your ass down and have a heart to heart.  Y’all need to hug this shit out.  I guess I could possibly turn on my own nipples under certain circumstances but you’re probably going to have to roofie me.  Like more than usual.

And I’ll get that Girl’s Night At The Drag Show wrap-up post written soon, y’all.  I promise.  I mean it this time.  Don’t leave me, baby.  I’ll do you right from now on.


We were in Daytona Beach this past summer and that place is chock-full of alligators.  E and I started talking about how to successfully wrestle a full grown gator.  You know, because we’re experts on that being Texas natives and now living for the past several years in central Alabama, where the closest I’ve gotten to a free range gator is the deep fried variety when we eat at Pappadeaux’s.  Anyway, I said “To capture a gator, you just use the same technique I used to capture you, baby – blind them and sit on them”.  You’re welcome for that advice, single ladies.  Be sure to send me an invite to the wedding.


I was recently caught in a web surfing worm hole and came across an article titled “30 Reasons You Need A Pair Of Leather Pants”.  Here’s 30 reasons I don’t:  The 29 pounds I’ve packed back on and all of the deep South for 10 months out of the year.  I swear, these bitches.


I’m married to an engineer so I can’t avoid being ensnared in some scientific mumbo jumbo talk every now and then, despite my wailing and gnashing of teeth.  During one of these discussions, E condescendingly asked, “You know what an EMP is, don’t you?”  After I flipped him off, I said indignantly, “Yes, I do.  I saw Godzilla, thank you very much!”

On a side note, “Let them fight” is one of my favorite movie quotes of all time.


On a final, sad note, Alabama lost against Ole Miss last Saturday night.  Someone didn’t read my Primer To Being Friends With Me During College Football Season or my Amendment To My Primer To Being Friends With Me During College Football Season.  I know that’s a lot of reading but my friendship is usually worth it.  Okay, not really.  I wouldn’t go to the trouble, either.  Anyway, I had my own little meltdown and this was the product of that.

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As soon as I think I have all my Alabama football bases covered, some Einstein gets a football hard on and thinks they found a loop hole to my football rules.  New amendment.  And seriously, this shit is getting old.  I can’t keep track of all this fuckery.  Watch your own damned shitty football team and worry about your own damned dogs in the fight.  Anyway, back to the Amendment to the Amendment to my Football Primer Guide To Staying Friends With Me During Football Season:  Texts to E will NOT be read to me, motherfuckers.  Also, I’m not sending your ass that delicious Harry & David’s Baklava this Christmas.  That’s right.  You done shit your bed.

Roll Tide, anyway, y’all.


Thanks for reading, as always, even you motherfuckers.  Have a good weekend, y’all!

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Tits And Bits, July Edition

Remember, Tits and Bits is where I post random shit which may or may not be entitled to an entire blog post.  You will not see pictures of my tits or bits unless I accidentally post those selfies I sent to E last week.  Stop celebrating.  I can hear you.  As usual, we’ll do this old school, OCD bullet style.

  • The kids go back to school a week from tomorrow.  It’s going to hurt like a mother fucker, getting back on a schedule. There have been lots of times this summer I’ve looked at a clock while the kids and I were watching an Avengers movie, completely shocked that it was 3 a.m.  I was mortally offended when two different people called me the other morning before 9 a.m.  I’d barely even been asleep!
  • Fantasia, Sylvia, and I were embarking on an experiment/review for my blog while I was in Texas which involved purchasing this:

funnelI still haven’t finished unpacking from my Texas trip. Most of it’s done but there are a couple bags left.  Gracie was looking for her sea salt hair styling spray.  Apparently, if it’s not sea salt your hair is fucked.  Do NOT try that shit with regular table salt.  You will rue the day.  I’m only here to help, y’all.  Anyway, she found her sea salt spray, came back to the bedroom, and said, “I saw the funnel in your bag.  I didn’t touch it.”, then she visibly shuddered.  I attempted to explain that neither Fantasia or myself used the oil change funnel for the purposes we bought it for so it was unused and new but Gracie cut me off with a raised hand and said, “Mom, I don’t want to know!”  Oh, the teen years are going to be so fun – for me.

  • E and I were driving through Wendy’s one night a few weeks ago.  The customer in front of us was taking her sweet ass time.  E asked me, “How long does it take to order a Hot ‘N Juicy?”  I replied, “Maybe she’s in the wrong drive through and isn’t it called a Big ‘N Juicy?”  E laughed at me, which is his usual response to most things I say.  I then asked sincerely, “Is it Hot ‘N Juicy or Big ‘N Juicy?”, to which he just continued laughing.  Next time, I’m ordering the Hot ‘N Big ‘N Juicy.  I ain’t gonna miss any of those descriptive adjectives.
  • This goes way back to Christmas, when we were in Texas.  I never travel without my Poo Pourri.  It is priceless when you’re on the road for over two solid weeks.  E and I were on the way to my brother’s bar one night.  I was wearing a black leather jacket that had been thrown into a random bag in a hurry.  I kept smelling something not unpleasant but very strong and familiar.  I asked E if he smelled it.  He answered that he did.  We tried to identify the scent all the way to the bar.  I finally recognized the fragrance as we were parking.  My jacket smelled like the citrus Poo Pourri I packed.  The bottle had leaked all over my leather jacket.  Always looking at the bright side, I told E, “Well, if anyone shits on me tonight, I’m golden.”  Glass is half full, y’all.
  • Landon and I were running errands a while back.  Landon has Asperger Syndrome and is not up to date on the latest trendy things to say, which makes this even funnier.  Also, he kind of sounds like Forrest Gump and I say that with love.  I was listening to some new music I had added to my Spotify favorites playlist.  I wasn’t very familiar with the songs so I didn’t know there were multiple F Bombs in them.  I know it’s hard to believe but I try to not curse in front of my kids and I try not to play music with F Bombs when they’re with me.  So after the first F Bomb hit, Landon said “That was a F Bomb!”  I apologized and went to the next song which dropped about four F Bombs within the span of 10 seconds.  I was so flustered that I just turned the stereo off and apologized again to Landon, who sighed, shook his head and said very disapprovingly, “So many F Bombs.”
  • Gracie was bemoaning the fact that school starts next week.  She said, “Yeah, I can’t wait to hear the yelling and cursing and see the fighting.”  I said, “Oh, it won’t be much different than a night at home then.”
  • Speaking of hurting like a mother fucker, just block out everything and watch this.  It’s Adam, his ass, and almost peen.  Some other people may be in it, I’m not sure.

That’s it for Tits and Bits, July edition!  I’ll post my Summer Texas Trip Wrap Up in the next week, which will include an explanation for the funnel purchase and also explain to E’s good friend (who subscribes to my blog) why I asked him over the phone if I could show my tits at my brother’s One Year Anniversary party at the bar.  Yes, all that in one blog post.

Have a great week, y’all!

One Of Those “J” Months (Plus A Big Announcement!)

Go ahead and swallow whatever you have in your mouth before reading this (yes, especially that) or risk spewing your keyboard/phone with harmful liquids.  You’ve been warned.

I’m adding a monthly (or more often) segment to my blog.  It’s an advice column.

See?  Aren’t you glad you spit that (fill in the blank) out?  Why are you even reading my blog with that in your mouth, anyway?  You know what?  Never mind.

You may think I’ll suck at giving advice.  That’s your prerogative and you may be right.

I mean, I’ve gotten the months of June and July mixed up for the last few weeks.  I went in search of tickets for the new Amy Schumer movie, “Trainwreck”, and became extremely frustrated that I couldn’t find any local theaters that were showing it a few weeks ago.  I complained to my good friend Fantasia, who is also looking forward to the movie.  Fantasia just looked at me like women normally look at men and said “Yeah, but that doesn’t come out till JULY.  Right?”

I told E back in June that the Sloss Music Festival was a dick because they only gave people 24 hour notice of the schedule and put one day tickets on sale.  He then told a music junkie dude at work this information.  Music Junkie Dude looked at E like women normally look at men.  The festival wasn’t in June.  It’s in July.

I wanted to take Gracie to the Alabama Theatre to see Monty Python and the Holy Grail but I thought it was in July.  Guess what?  Yeah, y’all are quick.  Monty Python looked at me like women normally look at men.  The movie was in fucking JUNE and we missed it.

Damn you, months that start with the letter J!  You bitches are making me look bad.  Fine, you’re making me look even worse.  Stop parsing my words, J months.

Admittedly, I may be losing it.  I just followed a taco yesterday on Twitter.  Granted, it’s a really cool taco and is my favorite food mascot at the Birmingham Baron’s baseball games but still.  Let the words sink in:  I followed a taco yesterday on Twitter.

One final piece of evidence that I’m not completely reliable is that I’m writing this in a sweatshirt that has “SUNDAY FUNDAY” in huge lettering on the front.  It is obviously not Sunday Funday but I apparently have no fucks to give.  Maybe that’s why I’m such a good listener and adviser.  Dare I say, life coach.

I was drunk with E on vacation last month (I wish I had $1 for every single time I have used those words) and we were having a deep life discussion that always seems like a good idea to have when you’re good and drunk and sitting by the pool at a hotel in the wee morning hours.

E had been with me all week so he actually got to witness two separate instances of friends coming to me for advice via my Facebook private messages.  I’ve told E that I seem to be a safe beacon for advice to a lot of my friends but I don’t think he really believed me.  He does now.

One message was about the tragic, sudden loss of life and having a few questions for God.  The other was marital issues.  One male, one female.  And that was just over the course of a few days.

I told E that night by the hotel pool that I’d been thinking about what I want to do now that our kids are growing up.  They don’t need me as much as they used to.  My days as a stay at home Mom are coming to an end.  Before we started our family, I had been working on a teaching degree.  Now that I’m older and have discovered that I don’t even like most kids, I keep thinking about some kind of career in counseling.  That was a joke about not liking most kids.  Mostly.

Last week, I was chatting via Facebook Messenger with my good friend Lulu (not her real name, obviously).  She’s been traveling this summer and keeps me abreast of her journeys.  It’s been hilarious and eventful.  She’s back home now but has an upcoming trip that has her worried. She asked me for advice and then, not knowing of the deep life discussion I had with E, told me I should start an advice column.

God works in mysterious ways.  Or maybe Jack Daniels does.  Maybe they work together.  Who knows?  But here we are.  I’m starting an advice column to test the waters of real life counseling.  At least, as real life as a “humor” blog can get, and I use the term “humor” lightly.  Hell, I’ll also use the term “blog” lightly.  Satisfied?

So, give me your questions.  Don’t be shy.  You would not believe what has ended up in my Facebook Messenger inbox, my phone text messages, emails, phone calls, carrier pigeons, messages in a bottle, etc.  You will not faze me.  I promise.  Don’t send me questions about mad love with the neighbor’s donkey or anything like that.  Send me real questions.  If your real question really is about mad love with the neighbor’s donkey, please unfollow this blog and unfriend me on Facebook.  Because holy shit.

Topics I’ve been asked for advice on include but are not limited to:

  • Marital issues, asked by both chicks and dudes.  No, neither were hitting on me.
  • Sex tips, asked only by chicks.  No, they weren’t hitting on me.  Dudes can ask for the blog.  I’m fine with that.
  • Your husband has left you, you’re drunk at 2 a.m.  You just want someone to answer the question of why he left you, come up with a few one liners for the “other woman” for when you eventually see her fat ass at your kid’s Parent/Teacher Night, totally validate you and make you feel like a million bucks because you once again fit into the jeans you wore in high school not due to rigorous exercise and diet but due to severe depression and a diet of only clear liquor because clear liquor has “no carbs” and fuck him anyway?  Message me instead of calling or texting that bastard.
  • Book suggestions.  Mainly “romance” books that are really porn, though.
  • Straight up porn suggestions.
  • Questions about God, life, and death, sometimes all that combined.
  • Still living in your hometown and mostly pretty happy about it but you completely lose your shit one night and need to vent about the local hillbillies and ask for advice without having to move the next day?  I’m the go to on that one, apparently.  You’d be surprised how often this happens.
  • Concert advice because I know more about music than anyone you know and your Little Johnny wants to see a band named Twisted Painful Prolonged Death live at the local community college but you don’t know who the hell they are, you’ve never heard them on your Top 40 radio station and you’re worried they’ll convert Little Johnny to Satanism – or worse – to Episcopalian.  Yep, I’m the go to on that one also.  And that was a joke, Episcopalians.
  • Hair advice because I’ve dyed my hair magenta/red for the last 3-4 years so I must know how well green will look and work on yours?  No.  I don’t.
  • Advice on how to handle panic attacks?  I’m on meds for that so I seem like the logical person to ask but that’s still kind of like asking an alcoholic how to stay out of the bar.  But I’ll try.
  • Your bestie is being a total cunt but you don’t want to confront her on it yet, you just want to hash it over with a somewhat unbiased friend who isn’t a total cunt and won’t run to the other cunt to tell all?  That’s me.
  • Any question you would like answered, to the best of my ability, maybe with a little humor, then sealed in a human vault?  Because I am very trustworthy.  I have been asked all the above questions and more.  The identity of those people will never be revealed.  I’m grateful for the fact that they obviously trust me enough to come to me with their dilemmas.

If you send me advice using your real name, you can give me an alias to use here on the blog.  Pick a good one.  Pick the name you’d use if you ever fulfilled your lifelong dream of becoming a super classy stripper.  I’m not sure they exist but let’s just pretend.  One of my good friends picked Fantasia as her alias.  Now that’s a super classy stripper name!

I look forward to your questions.  I’ll probably answer them at least once a month, more often depending on how pressing your advice situation may be.  I’m nothing if not timely.  Okay, fine, I’ll try to be timely-er on this.  This is serious shit.

I hope y’all are having a great week.  I have to go change shirts now and check on what the taco is doing over on Twitter.

You’re A Sneaky Bastard, Summer!

It may not technically be summer according to the calendar but it’s summer in my book when my vanity succumbs to my survival instincts and I actually don short shorts and a tank top to go out in public.  Throw your outdoor thermometers away.  The Weather Channel should just stand outside my house and post weather forecasts completely based on the amount of my flesh I am exposing to Southern air.  They could call it the “Flesh Tracker”.  No costly satellites needed.  Jim Cantore can retire to Florida and call his shit done.

Let me count the ways I have always hated summer.

I hate the temps.  If you’re in the South, you also know what humidity that takes your breath away feels like.  It doesn’t get much better when I go back home to Texas in late July.  A couple years ago, my friend “Fantasia” threatened to take my native Texan card away if I complained about the temps one more time.  In my defense, a whole bottle of hand sanitizer exploded in my car.  EXPLODED.  If I would have been in the vehicle when the bottle exploded, I could have been killed or even worse.  It was considered a “cool front” that year if temps got below 114 degrees.  I have located the mouth of hell and it is in or around North Texas.

I hate the fashions, especially when I have “more to love” than usual and I’m really lovable this summer.  I hate trying on swimsuits so much that I skipped it altogether, played swimsuit routlette and ordered online this year.  This is one of the suits I bought:

swim

The ad claims this suit will make you “suddenly slim” so I completely ignored the Law of Horizontal Stripes, figuring it wouldn’t apply to my suddenly slim ass.  I ended up just looking like the damned Hamburglar.

Robble fucking robble.

Now on a personal vendetta against the Law of Horizontal Stripes, this is the second suit I ordered:

No fucks to give. Not one.

It’s like Barney and the Hamburglar had a one night stand and this came out nine months later.  Before anyone asks, and I know they will, Barney was definitely the power bottom in that arrangement.  Hamburglar has done hard time and is through taking that shit.

I hate summer because no matter how much time I spend on my makeup, an hour later I look like a contestant from RuPaul’s Drag Race who got his/her ass kicked by that coffee can full of bacon grease my Granny used to keep on the back of her stove.  Not a cute look, y’all.

I hate summer because I have a problem with swimming pools, aside from the obvious swimsuit debacle.  I can’t enter a public pool without desperately wanting to test the water for urine or even worse things.  I hate the toddlers at the local pool who smirk at me because they can swim better than I can.  One day, I’ll catch them when they’re not wearing their Disney arm floaties and it will be ON.

Before I send summer to therapy, I’ll attempt to find something positive about it.

I love the time off with the kids and the lazy schedule we strictly adhere to.  I’m usually at my fittest in the summer because we grill a lot and I’m more disciplined with my diet and exercise because I’m going home to see family and friends.  That’s another perk of summer, going back to Texas with the kids and seeing those same family and friends.  I love a really ice cold beer and summer was made for that.  I love Sonic Route 44 diet green iced teas.  I love summer action movies.  I love my summer playlist on Spotify, which I created last year and titled “Summer:  Let’s Do This, Fucker”.  I love knowing that on the other side of summer is the reward of fall, football, Halloween, cozy sweaters, knee high boots and mossy green eyeshadow.

Okay, fine.  Let’s hug it out, summer.  You’re not that bad after all, you sneaky SOB.

Let me know in the comments if and why you hate summer as much as I do.  Have a good week, y’all.  I’m down 8.2 pounds!  Woo hoo!

Sweep The Leg!

I first posted about my friend “Fantasia” here.  It’s Easter week and that reminded me of this text from last year.  Fantasia’s is a bit cropped out for some reason, so I will translate:

Fantasia:  I’d fight a bear for you.  Not a grizzly.  Or a brown bear.  Not a panda.  But maybe like a Care Bear?  I’d fight one of those sonsofbitches for you.

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I think most of my readers are pretty safe from bear attacks but probability is extremely high that you’ll run into multiple chocolate bunnies this week.  One at a time is doable, but when encountering a chocolate bunny gang, things can go South quickly.  When this happens, your innate reaction will be to first take out the ears or the ass but resist that instinct, my friends!  Go all Karate Kid on those bunny fuckers and sweep the legs.  Trust me on this.  Sweep the legs.  Then go back for the ears and ass when they’re helpless.

Also, I’m on Twitter!  Go follow me, please: https://twitter.com/OnTheRocksSteph